Stay Until We Break (19 page)

“No, but what happened with Sonia? She’s been a mess all afternoon.”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“No,” she says. “She won’t tell anyone anything. Did you guys break up?”

“Break what up?” I ask. “Emmy, we’ve been together a week, it’s not like we were going to get married.”

Her eyes soften, but she doesn’t say a word, and I don’t want to talk about it, anyway. The party is filling up now, people streaming in through the front door. I finally see Sonia out of the corner of my eye, walking out of the kitchen, and she’s a mess. Her eyes are dark and sunken in her head like she hasn’t slept in days, and I can see she’s been crying. Her hair is messed up like she’s been sleeping on it. She sees me and our eyes lock for a second, but she looks every bit as angry as I still feel. Then she turns and walks down the hall, away from me.

“It’s time to play,” Emmy says. “Are you ready?”

My stuff is already set up—obviously Travis has arranged my pedals and plugged all my shit in for me. When he sees me he just gives me a nod, nothing more, but his expression is full of concern. I give him a nod back:
It’s fine. I’m fine. Chill out.
Joey calls me over from behind the kit and says, “What’s up, you good?”

“Yep,” I say. “Let’s make some noise.”

“I hear that,” Emmy rasps. She hands me a whiskey glass and picks another up from the top of her cabinet. We clink glasses and down our shots, and the alcohol burns warm down my throat, makes my eyes water. But at least we’ll both be able to sing through this fucking head cold. “Cole—if my voice gives out, take over the lead, all right?”

“Sure,” I say. “But let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that.”

Sadly, by the middle of the fourth tune, it does. She’s unable to reach any of the highs and by then her throat hurts so bad even another shot of whiskey doesn’t help. I end up singing all the lead vocals on the second half of the set, which isn’t so bad because I have to stay so focused on what I’m doing that I can hardly pay attention to Sonia, sulking in the back of the room.

The crowd is packed in so tight it’s got to be a fire hazard, and they’re jumping wildly in front of where we’re playing. A minor mosh pit breaks out. Maybe it’s the testosterone I’ve added by singing the lead on “Fire in the Empire” that gives it more of a hardcore edge. In any case, I’m so busy trying not to fuck up the set that I almost don’t notice when Jason and Maury and the rest of the fucking Pumps walk in during our second-to-last song.

“The Pumps are here!” someone screams from the side. I look over and see Misty pumping her fist in the air, shouting, and then a bunch of other people start doing the same. All the crowd starts chanting, “Pumps! Pumps! Pumps!”

“Well, well, well,” I say from the mic. “I’m sorry, I thought this was an exclusive party. Can we please see your invitation?”

Jason grins and flips me the bird.

“Holy shit,” Emmy squeaks.

“What’s wrong with Emmylou?” Jason calls from the crowd. “Cat finally got that enormous tongue of hers?”

“That cat’s still around here somewhere, so watch out,” I tell him from the mic. “Thanks for having us, Misty, and happy birthday,” I say. “This is our last song, ‘Loud Is How I Love You.’”

Several people in the audience hoot and holler like they’ve heard of it, so that’s cool. Travis starts to pick the guitar riff when Jason walks right up and whispers something in Emmy’s ear. We get to the beginning of the verse when he looks at me and takes the mic and starts singing over me, “Way back when . . . first day of school . . .” And would you believe that motherfucker knows all the words?

The party goes ballistic because Jason Foley, big shot frontman for the Pumps, has just wrestled our single away from us. Emmy shrugs in defeat and I back off the mic, just jumping in to do harmonies with Travis when they come around. The Pumps are assholes, through and through, but when you see the crowd having such a good time, it’s tough to argue.

When our set is over, I don’t see Sonia anywhere. Fine by me. I have nothing to say to her, anyway. Crown starts setting up their gear and Jason asks me if I’ll come outside to talk for a minute. Why I agree, I don’t even know.

“Look, man, you should play bass for us,” Jason says when we’re out of earshot of anyone.

“What?” I laugh. “Are you fucking with me?”

“I’ve been wanting to let Maury go for a while now,” he says. “He’s all right but he doesn’t have what we’re going for. And you do.”

Jason gives me the once-over like I’m a ham hock in a butcher’s display case.

“I’m not interested,” I say.

“Give it some thought, first,” Jason says. “You know, we could even use Sunny to pick up some of the publicity work. Package deal.”

“My answer is no,” I say again. “Maury’s a great bass player and he puts up with your shit. Why would you dump him?”

“It’s nothing personal, he just doesn’t get what we’re about,” Jason says. “You? You can sing, you play like a motherfucker, and you’re almost as good looking as I am.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “God, you’re such a dick.”

“Yeah, well that may be true, but I’m also on Geffen. You’d kill to be here, and I know just how you feel.” He takes one look at me, and I know what he sees. My exhausted face. My worn-out Vans. An old pair of Levi’s with the knee gone. “I know it’s fun to hang out with your friends and play rock star, but you want to make money at this, don’t you? You’re good enough. The question is, how bad do you really want it?”

He hands me his business card—a fucking business card. I’m so pissed off I want to smack it right out of his hand. But I don’t. I just stare and marvel at the size of this guy’s balls.

“Think it over,” he says. “That’s the number for Hailey, our publicist at Geffen. She can always get a hold of me.”

Before I gather my wits enough to tell him to fuck off one more time, he slithers away, back into the house.

I sit on the porch steps, stare at the card for several minutes, just thinking. Thinking things I don’t even want to think about. Like, I could probably earn all of Claire’s tuition for her entire Rutgers career in a single year if the Pumps hit as big as they probably will. If they break the top ten at Billboard, Jason won’t be paying for the hotel suites anymore. I wouldn’t have to be a plumber. Mom could quit cleaning at the Marquis. And then, maybe Sonia . . .

“What was that about?” Emmylou says, coming up behind me, her voice jagged. She winces and takes a sip from a steaming mug.

“You’re a mess, Em.”

She takes a seat next to me on the porch steps and points to the business card in my hand.

“What did Satan want?” Her eyes are red like mine from lack of sleep and getting sick. You know, having the best time of our lives.

Like a dying man, I flash through all my memories of hanging out with Emmylou and Joey and Travis, all the shows we’ve played, the adventures we’ve had doing this crazy rock band shit. I imagine them going on without me, and I know they will. But then I imagine how they’d feel if I left them and joined the Pumps. I know how much I’d hate myself if I ever did that to them.

And really, what’s the point in living the dream if you have to sell your soul?

“Nothing,” I say. I take my lighter out of my pocket and set the card on fire. I watch the flames lick around the edges, pinching the corner between my fingers until I have to drop it and stamp the fire out under my foot.

And then any dream I ever had of being a rock star dies with this fading cloud of smoke.

Sonia

What a fucking waste.

That’s all I can think as I watch Crown the Robin play their set—what a stupid waste it is for Cole to quit playing music. I’ve always known he was an immense talent, but after watching him front Soft for half a set? Jesus Christ. That boy’s voice is like melted chocolate poured right on a starving tongue. Even as sick and as pissed off as he is, he got right up on stage and brought it anyway like it was effortless. How dare he throw that away like it’s nothing? What a fool.

This is what I think about, because I can’t think about how utterly and completely he broke my heart. I can’t think about how the friendship we started out with is broken beyond repair. And I really can’t think about how dumb I feel for falling in love with him when I knew better all along.

Totally McCormacked. Just like I’d predicted from the start, only it hurts even more than I’d expected.

As I’m stewing, Jason catches my eye from the kitchen doorway, where he’s being fawned on by three different women. He waves me over, and while I want to pretend I don’t see him, I still want to convince him to make a contact at Geffen for me. I weave my way through the crowd and I’m surprised when Jason actually hugs me. Me—“Pediatric”—the girl who blew a perfectly good hit of cocaine all over his hotel suite.

“Epic guest appearance, right?” he says, totally satisfied with himself. “Soft owes me for giving them a huge hit of hip cred.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. What an enormous prick. “Just imagine what they’d owe you if you hooked them up at Geffen.”

“Well hey, guess what?” he says. “Remember John Salinger? He was a year ahead of me at PDS.”

“I remember him,” I say. “Alto sax in jazz band. Didn’t he go to Oberlin?”

“He’s at Matador now,” Jason says. “I called him for you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” he says. “They got the single but he hasn’t listened to it yet. He said he’ll come check them out at Maxwell’s. Sonia? What’s wrong?”

I’m standing here with my mouth hanging open. Because I’m in shock, that’s why. I’m in so much shock that I throw my arms around Jason’s neck and hug him again.

“You really did that?” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “You know, I’m a nice guy.”

“No you aren’t. Get real.”

Of course, he then lets on that he called John Salinger because he wants credit for breaking them. All you have to do is see Soft play to know that they’re going to get signed, and soon—especially now that they’ve been playing a new room every night for two weeks. By the end of this tour, they’ll be primed for Matador to come see them.

“I can’t wait to tell them,” I say.

“Oh, don’t tell them,” Jason says. “They’ll get nervous if they know he’s there, and they need to kill it, Sunny. My reputation is on the line.”

“They always kill it,” I say. “How can I even thank you for this? It’s almost like you’re a decent human or something.”

“There is something you can do, actually,” he says, his eyes narrowing and his smile oily and lecherous like he’s only been able to hold his true nature in check for so long. “I need you to talk to McCormack for me.”

I follow Jason’s gaze across the room and see Cole watching us, and boy, he looks pissed. If he’s decided he’s jealous, all I can do is laugh.

“I want him to join the Pumps,” Jason says in a low voice. “He’s considering, but you need to talk him into it.”

My jaw hits the floor. Second time Jason has shocked me in five minutes. I feel every bone in my body go brittle. That fucking scheming, lying snake—and I’m not talking about Jason.

“But . . . what about Matador Records?” I say.

“If Soft gets signed to Matador, they won’t have any trouble getting a new bass player. Hell, Maury will be looking and he’d fit right in there with them. He’s got all that shaggy hair like Travis.”

“Cole is really considering it?” I ask him. “He said that?”

Cole starts making his way through the crowd towards us and I can’t hide my disgust. Not that I can think of a single reason I should hide it.

“It’s a smart move for him,” Jason says. Then just as Cole reaches us, Jason gives him a sly, knowing look and walks off into the crowd. I feel like my insides have all liquefied and are draining like ice water through my feet. I give Cole the bitchiest Sunshine face I have in my arsenal. I put real effort into it, but he doesn’t flinch. He just gives me the same face back.

“We need to talk,” he says.

Fucking fine with me. I need to get a few things off my chest, too.

I follow him as he storms back to Misty’s den, and by now, I’m pretty sure I’m going to start screaming at him the minute we’re alone. He closes the door behind us and I count my breaths before I blow up.

“What the hell did you tell Jason?” he demands, and oh my God, he’s getting an earful from me now. “Did you tell him I’m quitting?”

“What did
you
tell him?” I shoot back. “That you’ll go be a fucking poser in the Pumps? Can’t you commit to anyone? Anything?”

“Of course I didn’t tell him that,” Cole says. “Get serious.”

“He says you’re taking some time to think it over.”

“And you fucking believe him?”

“With everything else you’ve lied about, why wouldn’t I?”

Cole gets so angry his face turns red and he stalks across the room, swearing until he reaches the door, and I think he’s about to leave. Then he turns to face me and I flinch, but fuck if I’m letting him see me afraid—I got good at this game long ago when my mother used to play it with me. I tighten my jaw, fold my arms across my chest.

“How much have you had to drink?” I accuse.

“Fuck you,” he says, pointing at me. “And fuck Jason, too. Fuck that imaginary world you people operate in. You want to judge
me
? Call
me
a liar?” He narrows his eyes at me and goes on. “Oh, how nice the view must be up there from that high fucking horse of yours. How sweet, knowing that when your little rock ’n’ roll fantasy goes down in flames, you’ve got the nice, soft cushion of Daddy’s bank account to land on. Some of us don’t have that luxury, you know.”

“You fucking
bastard
,” I say. My entire body is shaking with rage. No way am I talking to him when he’s in this state. “Get out of my way.”

Cole steps to the side and stretches his arm out as if ushering me through the door. I march past him and turn to say something else when the phone rings. We both look over at it, annoyed.

“You know,” I say, “if you’re so unhappy about quitting the band to get a job, then go join the Pumps. You’ll have plenty of money to pay for Rutgers then.”

“I’d rather pump shit from sewers all day,” he practically spits.

“Then shut the fuck up. The worst thing you can do is quit Soft so you can send your sister to college, and then be a pussy about it.”

He wants to explode, I can tell. He clenches his fists at his sides like all he wants to do is break something—probably me. His face is so red now I almost worry about his blood pressure. But I can only imagine what the hell he’s about to say, because Misty’s answering machine picks up.

“Hello?” a girl’s voice says. “I was told that I could find Cole McCormack at this number. This is his sister and I’m sorry to call so many times, but I have an emergency and I’m trying to reach him . . .”

Cole dives for the phone and manages to pick it up before she hangs up.

“Claire, it’s me, I’m right here,” he says, and he sure doesn’t sound drunk or angry now. He sounds just this side of panicked.

Everything I’d been thinking about disappears as I focus on his end of the conversation: mother, hospital, doctors, trouble breathing. He fumbles nervously, searching for something to write with. I pull a pen out of my pocket and hand him a piece of paper from the desk drawer. He takes it and writes down the number of a hospital room and another phone number. When he hangs up, he looks pale and exhausted.

“I have to go home,” he says.

“I know,” I say, my heart racing as I try to appear calm.

“It’s my mom—her asthma,” he says. “She was at work and had a bad attack. One of her coworkers found her and she couldn’t breathe.” Cole has to stop talking to collect himself, he’s so upset.

“Where is she?”

“Hackensack Medical Center,” he says. “I’m not sure for how long. Definitely tonight for some tests. Claire found out at the ER that she hasn’t been taking her medication to control it. She probably couldn’t afford it and never told us. She doesn’t have any health insurance.” When he says that, he looks like he’s going to be sick.

“I’ll get the others so we can figure out how to get you home,” I say, and then I go and rally Joey, Travis, and Emmylou to let them know what’s going on. We huddle by the gear stack in the corner of the dining room, dejected, sick, stressed out. The lowest point of the trip, by far.

“I’ll get some coffee in me and we’ll hit the road,” Travis says. “We can pack up and be out of here in an hour.”

“But what about the tour?” Cole says. “We’ve got nine shows left to play.”

I hate to seem cold, but I agree. If we cancel nine shows with so little notice, it’s going to be impossible to book these venues again, and we need to be back out here in the spring. And it’s not every day a band at this level gets a shot at Matador. I’m truly sorry Cole is having a family crisis, but Soft has to play Maxwell’s in a week, and they have to kill it. They
need
to play these shows.

“I’ll fill in for Cole,” I say, and everyone stares at me, not sure how to react. “We can put him on a bus home tonight, and I’ll spend tomorrow drilling the set. It’ll be fine.”

“Seriously?” Cole asks. “You’d do that?”

“Of course I would,” I say.

“But you said playing in front of people makes you vomit,” he says.

I glare at him, because he doesn’t need to be letting the world know that right now, does he? It’s damned embarrassing, and I don’t want the band getting anxious that I can’t manage his parts. Anxious bands do not get record deals with Matador.

“Sonia,” Emmy says. “You really think you can learn the whole set by tomorrow night?”

“She probably already knows it,” Cole says before I can answer. “That’s not the issue. But there’s something else we need to talk about—”

“Cole, I need to talk to you,” I say. “Now. Alone.”

“Everybody out,” Joey says, ushering Travis and Emmy through the door, giving us a concerned look over his shoulder as they leave. Cole crosses his arms defensively, ready to argue.

“What?”

“Cole, you can’t quit before you play Maxwell’s,” I say. “You have to play that show.”

“I can’t play that show,” he says.

“Yes, you can,” I say. “It’s a week away and it’s practically next door to your mother’s house. You can make it.”

“Sonia, I have more important things to worry about right now than playing rock star!”

Even with all the other shit on Cole’s plate, I’m upset that he, of all people, would belittle what we’re trying to accomplish out here. If he’s jumping ship, so be it. That doesn’t give him the right to fuck it up for everyone else.

“Look, by the time you finish playing that Maxwell’s set, it’ll be fine for you to quit. They’ll just be relieved they don’t have to fire you because I’m a lot better, anyway.”

Yes, I do stoop to goading him. Whatever it takes. And he’s absolutely floored when I say that, so mission accomplished.

“Then you play Maxwell’s,” he says, basically doubling down.

“But it won’t be the same,” I argue. “It’s Maxwell’s, Cole. It’s our homecoming and people might be there, you know? You want Soft to have a shot if there are important people there, don’t you?”

“What important people?” His eyes narrow as he questions me.

“We’ve gotten a lot of buzz off this trip, and it’s Maxwell’s, so you never know who might show up. We ran into Alice Cooper in Myrtle Beach, didn’t we?”

I guess he suspects there’s more I’m not saying, but he doesn’t push it. He’s quiet as he studies me, and I silently beg him,
Please, Cole. Please, please, please don’t be a dick about this.

“Fine,” he finally says. “I won’t tell the others I’m quitting until after Maxwell’s. But I can’t promise I can play that show. I have no idea what I’m walking into when I get home.”

“Fair enough,” I say.

“And you’d better play so well this week that they forget I was ever in the band.”

“I can do that.”

“I’m sure you can,” he agrees. “I just don’t believe you want to.”

“We worked our asses off for this tour,” I say. “And I’m not going to let it fall apart now.”

He nods his head, looking less angry now. Then he walks over, gets his bass out of the case, and holds it in his hands for several minutes, just looking at it before he brings it to me. I hold it in my arms, put my fingers against the strings, wrap my left hand around the neck, so much thicker and flatter than my cello. He stands right in front of me, and it hurts to have him so near.

“Let me hear you play ‘Loud,’” he says, pulling a pick out of his pocket.

That’s the easiest one, because it’s my favorite. I play it all the way through, start to finish. No problem. He points out where the distortion comes in, the reverb pedal. Now I play “Fire in the Empire,” start to finish. I play “Fake Tan.” He nods his approval.

“You have one hell of an ear, Sunny,” he says.

I nod, because this is true. And I’m really glad I do right now, because it’s going to come in handy.

“Look,” he says, his tone more serious. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I was angry and out of line. I never meant to hurt you, all right?”

“Then why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”

“Because I didn’t want to face the truth,” he says. “But it wasn’t fair to you, letting you think I’m someone I’m not. And I’m sorry for that.”

I can’t tell him it’s all right, because it’s not all right. It fucking sucks. And he sucks for leading me on this way. I have no idea what to say, so I just stare at the floor.

“Take care of her, okay?” he says, running his hand along the bass. “She’s been good to me.”

“I’ll give her back shipshape.”

“Nah,” he says. “She’s all yours now. Treat her right and she’ll see you through those sets in one piece. Even Maxwell’s.”